


Scenes from The Soldiering Life

by spiderfire



Category: The Soldiering Life - The Decemberists
Genre: American Indian, Black Character(s), Black Male Character, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Jukebox Fanworks Exchange, Love, M/M, Male Character of Color, Male Friendship, POV Character of Color, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Segregation, Spanish flu, Trench Warfare, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Bradley and Abe Brice met in basic training, volunteers for a war effort that would become known as the Great War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from The Soldiering Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> The prompt: 'So, tragic WWI soldiers in love? ... Make it hurt. :D" 
> 
> [Here are the lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/decemberists/thesoldieringlife.html) and [here is the music video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Pd_nzOvgis) I took some significant liberties with the video, but the video (and the song) take some significant liberties with reality, none of which actually matter to the point of the story. :)

**Ambling madly**

“Hey, Abe. Cut that out!” Harry Bradley chided. 

Abe’s broad grin was infectious and soon Harry was laughing too. And really, what wasn’t there to grin at? A twenty-four hour pass. It was fucking sunny for the first time in weeks. No one was shooting at them. They were alive. He stopped himself before that thought went any further. 

“Cut what out?” Abe asked innocently, taking a step out ahead of Harry and twirling around. 

Harry snorted. “You know what. It’s just a corporal’s stripe. They didn’t make you a fucking general.” 

Abe laughed. “Yeah, but you know what the beauty of this stripe is?” 

“What? Some peon just out of basic is going to have to call you ‘sir’ when they come to sign out a Model B?” 

“Ex-actly!” Abe replied. 

Harry shook his head while rolling his eyes. Abe continued. “And you are going to get a fucking thrill out of it as much as I am.”

Abe knew that Harry knew that he was right but damned if he was going to admit it. Abe gave him a playful shove but it was he that stumbled backwards, not Harry. The man was a tank . It just wasn’t fair. While his childhood friends had sprouted, his body had stopped growing. Now, at twenty, he was short and wiry and he felt like he had somehow never grown up. 

Since he had first put the uniform on, Abe had felt like a kid wearing his grandpa’s clothes. His grandfather had fought for the Union and his uniform was carefully preserved in a box, smelling of the sachets of cedar that were nestled in its folds. His dad had brought out the uniform every Decoration Day. Once, when he was eight, he and his brother had snuck in the closet and tried it on. Both of them had fit in the coat together. And then their grandma had come into the room and they had panicked. They were gonna get whooped like there was no tomorrow. “You boys…” she had started, but when she saw them, her eyes had teared up and she had sat down heavily on the bed. His brother, the little rat, had fled, leaving him red handed as he tried to awkwardly fold the uniform and put it away. 

Harry, unlike him, looked like he belonged in uniform. He filled it out and he stood tall, even when some sergeant was treating him like shit. Looking at Harry, he imagined that’s what his grandfather had looked like. Proud. Strong. Defiant. Despite everything.

Laughing, Harry draped his arm over Abe’s shoulders and drew him into a playful one-armed side hug that bordered on a head-lock. “So, we got twenty-three hours. What shall we do?” 

**Bombazine doll**

He lay on his back on the wheelie, staring up at the innards of a Liberty truck. God-fucking-damnit. There was the problem. He tried to reach in, to wedge his hand around the exhaust system but it was no use. Small as his hand was it was not going to fit. He patted the ground around him for tools, but the only thing he came up with was an adjustable too small to handle the bolts on the exhaust manifold.

“Harry!” he bellowed. 

“Yes?”

“Can you get me the half-inch ratchet?”

“You are going to take the exhaust off?” 

“Shut up.” 

“I told you…” He could hear the laughter in Harry’s voice.

“Yeah, well, last week you told me it was a fuse in that Model B and we took the entire front end apart to get at the stupid thing and what was it?” 

Harry was reaching under the truck, holding a wrench out for him to take. Their fingers brushed as he took the tool and it was like someone had plucked his string. His whole body vibrated, taking his breath away. 

Harry must have replied, but he did not hear it. His fingers closed around the cool metal and he caught his breath. 

“Abe?” Harry was saying, bent down to peek under the truck. “Abe? You okay down there?” 

Lifting the wrench to the bolt over his face and fitting it around the hex-head, he said, trying not to gasp out the words, “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

 

**So much life**

Charlie company’s motorpool was stationed several miles back from the frontlines. Most days the shelling was a distant pounding on the ground and the rifle fire was inaudible unless the wind was blowing just right. On those days they kept their gas masks and rifles within arm’s reach. Most days, the combat equipment was piled off to the side, irrelevant to their work. 

The motorpool squad consisted of a dozen men, including Abe and Harry, commanded by a Sergeant Bonnano. The sarge, Mr. Bananas they called him behind his back, was a good egg as far as Italians went. He knew his way around an engine and he was fair enough to the men. He said they went together – a greaser like him and jungle monkeys like them made for an outstanding team of grease monkeys. 

Captain Webster, commander of Charlie company, was particular about his mechanics. He told them repeatedly, “Goddamnit niggers, we are a fucking motorized regiment and you are the god-damned best mechanics in this man’s army.” And, by damned, they were. Charlie company’s trucks had more time on the line than any of the other company in the Fifth Regiment and Captain Webster never lost an opportunity to let the rest of the companies of the Fifth know. 

And so, when the Army wanted to field-test a new vehicle, something called the King Armored Car, it was brought to Charlie Company. 

“Will you look at that?” Bonnano said. They were standing around the vehicle, its hood propped open. 

“Why’d they put that tiny pecker in there?” Abe asked. 

Bonnano looked down at his clipboard. “Says here it is 70 horsepower.” 

Abe snorted, “Yeah, on a fucking four ton car, after they put all that plating on it.” 

“Bet I can walk faster than it can go.” said Private Freeman. Private Freeman was the newest member of the squad. He claimed to be eighteen but Abe had his doubts. Sixteen would be more like it. Even so, he was magic on the drive train. 

“It’s got a nice gun, though.” Corporal Caruthers added. Caruthers was from Georgia, the only member of the squad from the South. His voice reminded Abe of his grandmother. “The M1909 has quite a range.” 

“Yeah, only if the firing pin don’t break,” Private Freeman said.

“The firing pin only breaks when you put the shells in wrong,” Sergeant Bonnano said.

“And you think the bird shits who are gonna crew this thing are going to put them in right?” asked Abe.

Bonnano looked sharply at him. “Careful, boy,” he warned.

There was silence. No one looked at Abe. He blanched, ducking his head. Shit. Him and his mouth. His ma would have had him over her knee for that. Mostly the Sarge took it as good as he gave it, but insulting the men on the front line? Even Abe knew he had gone too far. After a few seconds, Harry broke the silence. “Do we really have to put this thing on the line, Sarge?”

Bonnano shrugged, glancing at Abe and then dropping it. “Cap Webster wants it but if it don’t run…” The squad gave a nervous chuckle. “Tell you what,” he continued. “Let’s see what we can do with it. Maybe we can rustle up a Lewis gun and squeeze a few more horses out of this engine before we let the frontlines have it. Corporal Bradley,” Harry looked up. “You’ve had some good ideas these last few weeks. I like the work you did on that Liberty truck. You lead this one up. Let me know what you need.” 

Wide-eyed, Harry nodded. Abe slapped him on the back. “Mind,” Bonnano continued, “you do this project in addition to your regular work. You got that? Gotta keep the vehicles on the line.” 

“Yes, sir!” Harry replied. 

“Okay, show time’s over. Everyone back to work.” Bonnano said. The squad started to move off. “And Mr. Brice…” Abe stopped and looked at the sergeant. “Next time I write you up.” 

Abe nodded. “I am sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” 

Bonnano snorted. “Yeah, right.” But then he smiled at Abe and waved vaguely towards the car he was working on before the King had been delivered. “Back to work, boy.” 

“Yes sir!” 

Evening, a few days later, Abe and Harry were tinkering with the harness for the Lewis gun they had mounted on the King car. They were alone in the garage because the rest of the crew had left for the weekly poker game. On any other week, the poker game was good fun. Bannanas usually played the first hand or two with them and then left “for the real men’s table”, he liked to joke. However, Abe thought he would rather play with them than with the other sergeants. Freeman poked fun at his own age, pretending not to understand how the game was played, usually fleecing them in the process. Carruthers let loose once the sarge was gone and it was just the colored men. His ongoing colorful commentary was enough to keep them roaring for hours. 

Tonight, though, the King car project was waiting and they had mounted the new gun this afternoon. Abe and Harry worked on the car as distant mortar fire caused the ground to vibrate every few minutes. 

“Hand me the flat-head, Abe?” Harry asked after a distant rumble passed. 

Abe handed the screwdriver over. “You got enough light to see in there?” he asked. 

“Just about. Gonna have to quit soon.” 

Abe rested his elbows on the frame of the car and peered in. He loved watching Harry’s hands at work. Despite their size, they moved nimbly in delicate situations. Harry’s hands were calloused and roughened by the work and at the moment, they were caked with grease down under his fingernails, around the cuticles and darkening the pale creases where his fingers bent. “You sure that bolt is tight enough?” Abe asked, watching Harry’s big hands as they gently twisted a set screw.

“It’s fine,” Harry said.

“So, what’d your sister say in her letter?” There had been a mail call today and Harry had gotten two letters. 

Harry shrugged. “Not much. She’s been accepted to a secretarial school and Ma is dreaming big about her making something of her life, so she don’t have to work in a laundry, you know?” 

Abe nodded. “That what your ma does?” 

“Yeah.” After a few seconds of silence, Harry said, “Pass me the ratchet?”

Abe went over to the toolbox and rummaged around until he found what he wanted and then he went back. As he took the tool, Harry asked, “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Did you get a letter?”

Abe shook his head. “Naw. There’s only grandma left and she never learned to read. Sometimes she gets Mr. Elliot down the hall to write a letter for her, but not very often. She forgets things, you know?” 

Harry nodded as he worked. “Any brothers or sisters?”

Abe shrugged. “Isaac was a couple years younger than me and he died of measles when he was ten. I had a little sister, they baptized her Sarah, but she died right after being born.” He paused staring off into the distance. “So’d my mom. After my mom died, Dad came and went, mostly went. My grandma, my mom’s mom, raised me and Isaac.” 

“How old were you, when your mom died?”

“Six. Isaac was four.”

Harry shook his head. “That’s tough,” he said, but Abe shrugged. “I’m good. My grandma told me about her growing up. Glad I live now, if you know what I mean.”

Harry snorted. “Absolutely. Where’d the flat-head go?” 

Abe handed it to him.

After a few minutes Harry paused and looked up at Abe, putting his elbows down on the car. 

“What?” Abe asked, when Harry’s gaze became uncomfortable. 

“I’m worried about you.” 

“Why?” Abe asked, baffled. 

“The way you acted the other day, with the sarge. You’re a good mechanic, Abe, you don’t got nothing to prove.” 

Abe looked away, staring off across the tent towards corner where their gas masks and rifles were stacked. “It’s just…” 

“I know,” Harry said urgently. “But you can’t do shit like that.” 

Abe looked down, his eyes falling on Harry’s hands where they rested on the gun’s harness. He stared at the fingers, the way they draped across the metal frame. “How do you do it, Harry?”

Harry never answered because the ground shook again and they were both nearly thrown off their feet. Abe clutched the hood and Harry steadied himself on the gun. “Shit, that was close!” 

Outside there was screaming. Terrible screaming. They looked at each other and locked eyes. Another mortar landed, shaking the ground so hard they were knocked off their feet. 

Harry looked at the car and then wildly back at Abe. “Did you put the coolant system back together?” 

“Yeah, at lunch.” 

“Think it will run?” as he scrambled to his feet.

“Let’s find out,” Abe replied grimly, as Harry pulled him to his feet. 

“No time like the present, huh?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“You ever fire a Lewis?” Harry asked.

“Not since basic.” 

“That’s more than me. Load the ammo. I’ll drive.” 

Abe looked frantically around the room. The sarge had had a case of the ammo for the Lewis delivered with the gun, but the crate had become a temporary workbench. Shoving the tools that covered it to the ground, he grabbed a crowbar and pried the lid off with a vicious thrust. The nails let go with a loud squeal. Behind him, he heard the roar as Harry got the car running. “Hurry!” Harry called. Grabbing up as much ammo as he could carry, shit this stuff was heavy, he tottered over to the car and tossed it in, climbing in after it. “Go!” he shouted. 

Harry floored it and the car flew out of the motorpool tent, ripping through one of the mooring lines as it went. Abe gripped onto the seat, steadying himself as he tried to load the ammo in the gun, but doing it in a moving vehicle was a lot harder than he remembered. His comment about the firing pin echoed in his head. It seemed like an hour elapsed before it was ready.

He looked up. For all that it seemed like they were going a million miles an hour, they were barely going forty. He realized that somewhere the lines had collapsed. US soldiers were streaming past them, retreating. Some were running, others were limping, most were injured, blood streaming from their heads, arms wrapped around a buddy’s neck. 

Harry drove forward and then there, in the dusk, he found what they were running from. Dozens of German soldiers streamed through the American trenches. Getting behind the gun, he started firing. The gun blazed, going hot in his hands. 

And then Harry’s hands were on him, gripping his shoulders, pulling him gently back. “Abe,” he said urgently. “Abe, come on! We have to go.” 

He blinked. The ammo was gone. The car was not running. Smoke and dust obscured his vision. 

“What…” he started to ask but Harry grabbed his hand. “Later! Run!” 

They fled back across the battlefield leaving the car behind. He tripped on a body almost going flying, but Harry’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. They ran on. Harry tripped and Abe caught him. 

They were suddenly surrounded by American uniforms. The American soldiers stopped and stared as Abe and Harry slow to a walk looking for Sergeant Bonnano or other members of their squad. There was not a single familiar face. Not a single friendly face. Not a single brown face. They were surrounded by whites. The hostility was palpable. “Would you look at that?” one man drawled. 

A strange sergeant said to them, “What the hell were you doing out there, boys?” The sergeant’s voice was sing song, patronizing. 

Emotion was bubbling up out of Abe so fierce he couldn’t even put a name on it. He clenched his fists, ready to spring, but Harry laid a hand on his arm in warning. “Covering your retreat, sir.” Harry answered, all polite-like. 

“And who told you to do that?” the sergeant asked, his eyes turning glittery and hard. 

From behind them, Abe heard someone say, “The fucking cooks are covering our retreat? They even teach them to shoot?” 

And someone else replied, “They’re motorpool. From Charlie company.” 

“I heard they had niggers in Charlie’s motorpool.”

Abe put his hand on top of Harry’s. Harry’s fingers were digging into his arm. His own fingernails were leaving crescents in his palm. Despite this, Harry answered evenly, “No one, sir. We saw something that needed doing and we did it.” 

The sergeant stepped forward, menace coming off his wiry frame in waves. “You hear that, men? I thinks that is in-sub-bord-din-nation. What do you think?” 

There was a general murmur of assent with one person speaking loud enough to be audible, “You tell ‘em Sarge.” 

Harry shook his head and Abe felt his hand shaking on his arm. “No, no sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

The sergeant looked between the two of them. “Charlie is over there,” he waved vaguely to the west. “I suggest you two git.” 

It took every ounce of Abe’s self control not to look over his shoulder as they walked away. 

“Fuckin’ zip coons,” someone said to their backs. “Be careful or you gonna find yourself swinging from a tree.”

**The call to arms**

It was past midnight when Abe pulled the tent flap aside and crawled onto his bedroll. He turned over and flopped on his back with an exhausted sigh. Harry was awake and he rolled over on his side to face him. 

“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” Abe said, staring at the canvas over his head. 

Harry shrugged. “I was working on Tiny’s rifle until an hour ago.” 

Abe rolled on his side to face Harry. “I don’t know why you do that. He’s just gonna turn around and talk shit about you to the rest of his squad. Just like that other guy, Private Snot-face.” Harry punched Abe on the shoulder. “Ow. I mean it, Harry. Those birdshit fuckers in the combat squads. They just are gonna claim that they did all that work. Or, worse yet, claim you fucked it up and they fixed it.” 

“Bananas didn’t,” Harry said. “Cap Webster didn’t.” 

There was a long silence. Sergeant Bonnano died the night of the rout. Killed in his own bedroll. Neither of them had seen or heard of Captain Webster in weeks. 

“Who cares?” Abe said. “We’ll be stuck on KP forever. I want to kill some Krauts, not scrub pots half the night.” 

Harry sighed rolling onto his back. “KP is important too,” he said. “Soldiers have to eat. And if you would just keep your damned mouth shut, you wouldn’t get stuck on pot duty.” 

Abe knew he was right and he realized that Harry was disappointed in him. Harry kept trying to keep him in line and he kept plowing right across it. He sighed and rolled on his back, staring at the canvas ceiling and the tiny pinprick of a hole that moonlight streamed through. “At least the grease came off my hands,” he said after a while. 

Harry did not say anything, but he reached over and took Abe’s hand. Abe closed his eyes as Harry’s warm fingers closed around his. Harry’s breathing evened out and his grip relaxed soon after that, but Abe stayed awake for a long time, feeling Harry’s hand in his own. The relaxed strength in the fingers, the way his hand was dwarfed in Harry’s palm. For a while, it felt like his hand was electric and the buzz emanated up his arm, but eventually he too fell asleep. 

The next morning after breakfast was over, Harry and Abe were swabbing tables when the mess sergeant came up to them. “Brice, Bradley,” he said. 

They stopped and looked at him. “Yes, sir?” 

“Captain Webster wants to see you.” 

Abe looked at Harry. He was as surprised as Abe was. “When, sir?” Harry asked. 

The sergeant shrugged. “Now, I s’pose. You boys better get going.” 

Leaving their buckets behind, they headed over to the command tent. “Did you know Cap was here?” Abe asked Harry. 

Harry shook his head. “No, you?”

“Nope.” 

The corporal who served as the captain’s secretary was sitting outside the tent, sorting piles of paper. He looked up as they arrived and called into the tent. “Captain, the guys from motorpool are here.” 

“Send them in,” was the reply. They ducked into the tent and stood before the table Captain Webster was working at. He looked up. “Ah, Corporals Brice and Bradley.” 

“Yes sir!” they answered in unison. 

Webster put down the pen he was using and studied them. “So they got you on Bravo company KP now?” he said. 

“Yes sir,” Harry replied cautiously. After the night of the rout, Charlie company had been broken up and reassigned. They had been sent to Bravo. 

“How are you liking that?” 

Abe opened his mouth but then he felt Harry’s hand on his arm. “Well enough, sir” Harry answered. 

Captain Webster laughed. “You don’t have to lie to me, boy. It’s a criminal waste, having you two on KP. Adams is a bigoted fool.” Adams was captain of Bravo Company and his dislike for colored folks was well known. 

Webster put aside the paper he had been holding and looked at them. “I want to try an experiment,” he told them, “and I think you two would be fine candidates. Have you boys heard of the Massachusetts 54th?”

Harry shook his head, but Abe nodded. “Yes sir. My grandfather was in it.” 

“You don’t say?” Webster asked, intrigued. 

Abe nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Huh. Well that explains a few things.” 

“What do you mean, sir?” Abe asked. 

The Captain was wearing reading glasses. He dropped his chin and looked at Abe over the top. “Well, let’s just say, I like your spirit, Corporal.” He looked at Harry for a moment and then down at a paper in front of him. “I want to form a new squad and I want you two in it.”

Abe gave Harry an excited grin. Harry frowned and looked pointedly back at the captain. 

The captain chuckled. “I think Corporal Brice has the idea. I want a combat squad made up of colored boys. A month ago when that surprise attack came, you two had good instincts, even if it did cost us the King.” 

Abe and Harry looked at each other, wondering if they should reply, but the captain continued. “So, what do you think?” 

**The bullets may singe your skin**

Abe bounced, landing heavily against the canvas walls of the Liberty truck as it hit a rut and jolted. Awkwardly, he shifted, settling his rifle back across his knees. Harry leaned over and said, “Lightweight” in his ear, shouting to be heard over the roar of the truck. 

He elbowed Harry in the ribs and Harry squirmed. “Hey!” Across the aisle, Private Freeman watched them. Freeman was the only other member of the mechanics crew in the new squad and he sat huddled on the bench nervously fingering the straps on his pack. Even in the shadowed interior of the truck, Abe could tell Freeman was scared. Each time the truck lurched on the pitted road, Freeman looked around with panicked eyes, the whites showing plainly against his dark skin. Abe thought, he was so young! 

A half-dozen other members of the new squad were also in the truck. Twin brothers - Jim and Jonny Washington – sat side by side next to Freeman. A friend of the twins, a guy almost as big as Harry named Sam Terrence, sat across from them. And their new sarge, an actual, honest-to-god full-blooded Injun by the name of Michael Louis, sat by the open canvas door at the back of the truck, impassively staring at the receding landscape. 

Abruptly, the truck came to a stop leaving the men swaying against each other. Sergeant Louis got to his feet, swinging his pack up onto his shoulders in a single motion as he leapt from the truck. “Come on, ladies!” he said. “Time to walk.” 

The sergeant stood by the truck, cradling his gun and staring into the trees as the men jumped out. When the last one was on the ground he pounded his hand against the truck. The squad gathered by the side of the road as the truck turned around. “See you in a week, Sarge!” the driver yelled. “Don’t be late.” 

The sergeant gave the driver the finger and the driver laughed as he drove off. Then the sergeant turned to them. “Okay men, listen up. We’re in Allied territory here, though it’s really more no-man’s land since there are not enough troops to fortify it. About five miles that-a-way,” he gestured to the east with his hand, “is held by the Germans. The brass thinks they are dug in but they don’t know for sure. Good so far?” 

Sergeant Louis glanced around and the men nodded, so he continued. “Our mission is a scouting mission. The brass wants to know what kind of resistance to expect when they bring the whole fucking regiment up through this valley. _Ikha̲na_?” 

They looked at him and he rolled his eyes. “ _Comprenez-vous_? Do you understand?” 

Yes. Yes. Yes, they all nodded. The sergeant’s eyes fixed on Freeman. “Jesus, kid. Do you even shave?” Freeman opened his mouth but the sergeant waved his hand. “Don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know. Freeman, right?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“What’s our mission, Freeman?”

Panicked, Freeman looked over at Abe but Abe shook his head slightly. Freeman looked back at the sergeant. “Um, we are looking at German defenses and reporting back what’s there?” 

“Close enough. Okay. Since there may be hostiles, and you are a bunch of nervous virgins, I am going to take point for now. Which one of you useless city boys wants to walk sweep?” 

Abe glanced at Harry, but Harry did not look back. He was clutching the butt of his rifle so hard his fingernails were white. 

The sergeant looked them over and then he started assigning roles. He pointed to the Washington brothers. “Tweedledee and tweedledum, which of you is which?”

One of them said, “I am Jonny, sir. This is Jim.” 

“Yeah right. Okay. Well, Jonny, take the right flank, Jim, take the left.” 

His eyes settled on Harry. “You, big guy. Brice?” 

“Bradley, sir.” 

Sergeant Louis nodded and then looked at Abe. Abe tried not to shrink back under the gaze, but suddenly he felt like a kid, holding his grandpa’s rifle. “You’re Brice?”

Abe nodded. 

The sergeant’s gaze was piercing as he studied the two of them. Finally, he said, “Bradley, take sweep, right flank.”

“Yes sir.” 

“Terrence, you take sweep left.”

Sam Terrence stepped forward. Like Harry, he was a big guy, tall and with muscles that bulged, threatening to tear the shoulders of his jacket. 

“The rest of you, fill in the middle. Let’s go.”

They walked generally eastward, moving cautiously closer to the boundary. Sergeant Louis worked his way up and down the line, coaching each of them as they moved through the woods. As far as Abe was concerned, the sarge could become all but invisible. It was eerie. No one that big should be able to disappear like that. 

After an hour or so without sighting a single German, Sergeant Louis signaled for a halt. They came to a stop near a twisted, ancient tree and peered through the underbrush. Abe could not see why they had stopped. 

Sergeant Louis pointed to three guys, including Freeman, and gestured for them to follow him. Together, the four soldiers disappeared into the underbrush. Abe looked at Harry and Harry met his eyes but they did not say anything. 

The forest was kind of creepy now that they were not moving. It was approaching midday and the insects sang in a constant hum, but there were no birdcalls or even squirrels to be seen scampering through the trees. 

They waited, straining their ears for the sounds of their returning squad members or worse, much worse. Abe’s mind invented scenarios, each more nerve wracking than the last. Perhaps someone was injured. Perhaps there had been an ambush. Surely it should not take this long! Images of bodies torn by explosions, bleeding out, lost arms, legs… There, was that gunfire? A scream? 

He felt a hand on his arm and he looked down to see Harry was touching him. He had come to his feet, he realized and he had his gun held, half pointed into the trees. Harry glanced at his hand and he realized he had his finger on the trigger. Ruefully, he removed it and crouched back down. Harry nodded at him. 

Abruptly, piercing the hum of the insects, the sergeant’s whistle rang out. The sarge had told them he would use a dove or a cardinal or something, but honestly, a bird sounded like a bird to Abe. He could not tell the difference. However, since there were no other birds, it couldn’t really be anything else. They stood as the sergeant and the other three came out of the woods. 

“There’s an abandoned hut up about two hundred yards up there,” Sergeant Louis said. “We’ll rest there a few hours before continuing.” 

The hut was tiny, barely big enough for two, so they huddled around it, drinking from their canteens and gnawing on the hardtack from their rations. Abe and Harry sat with their back against the wall of the cabin, passing a smoke back and forth with Freeman. The Washington twins slept with their hats tilted over their faces while the Louis sat on a rock, staring out into the woods in the direction of the boundary. 

After an hour or so, they started moving again. They were closer to the boundary now. Even though none of them had the slightest clue as to where they were, the sergeant was on edge, glaring at them for each cracked twig or grunting stumble as they walked. 

They worked their way up a small hill and as they climbed, the trees began to thin. Without warning, gunfire rang out and suddenly Harry screamed in pain. 

Abe looked at him and he was clutching his cheek as blood poured between his fingers. “Holy mother of God!” he exclaimed. Abe began to shoot wildly in the direction where he thought shot and come from. Suddenly the air was full of bullets and screams and roaring anger. 

It felt like it lasted hours and then Sergeant Louis was next to him. “Hold your fire!” he said. When Abe kept firing, he laid a hand on Abe’s shoulder and shouted, “Corporal Brice, hold your fire!”. The words sank through the red haze that had clouded his eyes. He stopped firing. The forest was silent. Even the buzz of the insects had subsided. 

He looked around. There was Harry still clutching his cheek with blood still pouring between his fingers. It was like he had not even moved! Freeman and the others stared back with wide eyes. From the bushes on the left Terrence called out, his voice oddly strangled, “Sarge…”

Sergeant Louis glanced at them and then walked towards Terrence. Terrence continued hollowly, “It’s Johnny, Sarge. He was hit…” 

Jim Washington crashed through the bushes. “Johnny? Johnny!” he cried, falling to his knees next to his brother. 

Louis growled. “God damn it all! I told Webster you were too green. Bugger me!” He looked around. “We need to get out of here. Freeman, you are point, retrace our steps. Double time. Go! Terrence, Jim, you carry Jonny. The rest of you move!” 

All the squad turned and started to go back the way they came. Abe hesitated, looking at Harry who was trying to get to his feet. Abe stepped forward to help him but Louis pushed him aside. “Bradley, you okay?” he asked roughly. 

Harry nodded. “Its just a cut. I’ve done worse shaving.” 

Sergeant Louis smiled grimly, rummaging in his pocket for a handkerchief which he held out. Harry took it, pressing it to his face. “Thanks, sarge.” 

Louis shrugged and gestured after the others. “Go on. I’ll take sweep. Brice, you keep an eye on the right flank, I’ll watch the left.” 

**And the mortars may fall**

Abe sat nestled in the crook of a tree, his rifle across his knees. The tree he was in was high up on the side of the hill. Far below was the valley that that regiment would be pushing through in the next day. They would come from the west. He was looking toward the east for signs that the Germans might have gotten word of the upcoming attack. Half the squad was similarly positioned at other vantage points while the other half rested. Later, Abe would crawl down out of the tree and Jim Washington or Freeman would climb up. 

With a sigh, Abe tried to keep his mind on the job but could not stop thinking about Harry. The bullet had left a long shallow tear across his cheek, the edges of which had been blackened and burned. By the time they had gotten to a safe distance, the bleeding had stopped and the cut had started to swell. Jim Washington, whose mother was a midwife, was the closest to a medic they had. So, while Brice and Freeman had dug a grave for Jonny, Jim had cut off the burned skin from Harry’s face which starting the bleeding again. They he had pulled the edges together with sewing thread. By the next morning, the whole side of Harry’s face had swollen and he could not even see out the eye, but the stitches held. Now, nearly a week later, the swelling had receded and bright new pink skin was growing across the cut. 

Sometimes, Abe wondered why he was thinking about Harry so much, when Jonny Washington had died, and it had been his fault. If he had held his fire…

With a sigh, he gripped the rifle, idly thumbing the safety on and off, and refocused his attention on the valley. 

**A bowery tuff**

The advance had gone well. Now, after nearly two weeks in the rough, they had a six hour pass to town. To their American eyes, the town seemed ancient. Squat buildings made of carefully chiseled grey stone blocks were separated by cobbled streets. It looked like the village had grown out of the hills. 

Abe and Freeman were sitting on benches in a pub. The benches and tables were made of thick, heavy, dark brown wood, worn smooth by generations of patrons. The pub itself was packed with American GIs and they sat in a corner, trying not to attract attention. Abe had his back to the wall and he was watching Harry make his way through the crowd, bringing three steins of beer. Abe envied Harry for his bulk. If he had tried to walk across the room like that, he would have been tossed around like a cork in the waves. The beer would have spilled and, knowing his luck, he’d have been trampled underfoot. 

“Abe,” Freeman said. “Abe, wake up!” 

Abe blinked and looked at the boy. “What?”

“You okay? You zoned out there for a moment.” 

Abe nodded. “Yeah. What were you saying?” 

“The World Series, man. I thought you were from Boston?”

“Naw. New York. Why?” 

But Abe was not paying attention. His eyes were glued on Harry as he maneuvered through the last few people and arrived at the table. Freeman scooted over and Harry squeezed onto the bench across from Abe. 

Harry slid a beer over to Freeman. As Abe reached for his, Harry held onto the metal mug, long enough for their fingers to touch sending a jolt through Abe. Eyes wide, he looked at Harry to see if he had felt it too but Harry just looked at him with a strange little smile. The scar Harry’s face had started to darken but the ropey new skin pulled oddly on his cheek. Then Harry grabbed his own drink and took a long swallow, his face hidden. 

Freeman was still talking about the baseball game when Harry set down his mug and patted his breast pocket. “God-damnit,” he swore. “Either of you got any ciggies?” 

Abe felt in his own pocket and, finding it empty, shook his head. 

“I’m out,” Freeman said. 

Abe, suddenly finding himself in need of air stood. “I saw a kid selling packs. I’ll go get us some.” 

With another smile that made Abe’s heart pound, Harry said, “Thanks Abe.” 

A few minutes later, he was making his way back to the pub when he heard, “Hey, Brice.” He recognized Sam Terrence’s voice, low and angry.

He turned around. Terrence was standing with Jim Washington by his side. “What?” 

Terrence took a step towards him and then another. Terrence towered over him and he was much closer than Abe was comfortable with. Nervously, he stepped away and found himself backed against a wall, the uneven stone pressing into his spine. Terrence took a step closer.

Abe tried to slide sideways, but Terrence put his hand on the wall next to Abe’s head, trapping him. “Where you going, Brice?” 

Abe pulled himself up, lifting his chin, trying to make every bit of his five foot three inches exude a confidence that he did not really feel. “Back to the bar. Just needed some ciggies.” 

Terrence laughed. It was a mean sound. “You hear that, Jim? This nigger needed some ciggies.” 

Jim Washington took a step towards Terrence and put his hand on his shoulder. “Sam, let him go. You had too many.” Abe’s eyes darted between them, wondering if he could slide sideways and escape. 

Terrence brushed off Washington’s hand roughly. “Where’s your loyalty, man? It’s this golliwog’s fault Jonny’s dead. I say we take it out on his black ass. I say we…” 

“Sam,” Jim Washington pleaded. “Stop it. This ain’t what Johnny’d want.” 

“I don’t care!” Terrence yelled, sinking his fist into Abe’s stomach. The air whooshed from Abe and the color faded from his eyes as he crumpled to his knees. 

As he struggled to catch his breath, he saw Harry running towards them, shouting. Jim Washington stood between Terrence and Harry with his arms spread, as if to keep them apart. Harry punched him in the jaw on his way towards Terrence. As Harry swung on Terrence, Jim Washington came at him from behind and it was two against one. 

Abe struggled to his feet, launching himself at Terrence’s back, trying to land a punch to his kidneys. After that things got very confusing until he felt himself being pulled off and tossed aside. His mouth was full of blood. He spit it out and looked around. Freeman had Harry by the shoulders. Harry had torn his cut open and blood seeped out of it. The sarge had Terrence by the shirt and blood was pouring out of his nose. Washington was standing to the side with a rapidly swelling eye and a split lip. 

With disgust, Sergeant Louis shoved Terrence away. “Line up!” he ordered and the four of them staggered to their feet, trying to stand straight. “Who started this?” he demanded. 

They all kept their eyes forward. 

He stalked along the line, getting up into their faces. “Was it you, Jim? God knows, if anyone has a right to be angry it’d be you.” Jim Washington kept his eyes forward and the sergeant moved on to Terrence. “Or was it you? You’ve been a mess since the ambush.” 

Abe was shaking. He told himself it was because of the let down from the fight. He worried at the cut in his mouth with his tongue. 

The sergeant was in front of him and he found himself staring at the sergeant’s Adam’s apple. “What about you, punk? Out of this sorry lot, I’d peg you and your mouth as the biggest troublemakers.” His mouth was full of blood. He swallowed it. The sergeant moved on. Where the sergeant towered over Abe, he had to look up to glare at Harry. Harry kept his eyes forward, staring over Louis’s head. “Or was it you, moose?” 

None of them replied. 

“Fine. Have it your way,” Sergeant Louis said. “Leave’s cancelled. Clean yourselves up then you are confined to quarters.”

**Our eyes align**

It was black. Pitch black. Black like you could not see your hand in front of your face. And cold. Freezing cold. Even the whites of Harry’s eyes were barely visible in the dark of the night. 

They were alone. Somehow they had gotten cut off from the squad. The squad had been there, and then it was gone, and it was just them in the blackest of nights. Hissing calls and soft whistles, still not very convincing imitations of birdcalls, produced no response. They were side by side, their backs pressed up against a boulder, leaning against each together to keep warm, their rifles resting across their knees. They sat in silence, their hearts pounding. 

In the distance rifle fire pierced the night’s silence. 

“Oh, shit,” Abe said. 

“Shhh.” 

“They need our help! Let’s go.” 

Harry gripped Abe’s arm and Abe turned to face him. “That’s at least a mile off. It can’t be them.” 

Abe nodded, the surge of adrenalin fading. “Okay,” he said when he realized Harry could not see him. 

“We wait here. The sarge’ll be back for us,” Harry said. 

Reluctantly, Abe agreed. A week ago, Freeman and Terrence had not returned from patrol on time. Sergeant Louis had taken three other guys and found them, half a mile off course, oblivious to the fact they were lost. 

After a while there was a rustling in the leaves. It was approaching. A bird? Sarge? The Germans? 

Abe puckered his lips to whistle but before he made a sound Harry’s mittened hand pressed against his lips. He could just make out the shape of Harry’s arm as he pointed with his other hand. 

Ahead, in the direction they had come from, shapes moved through the dark, creeping through the trees and streaming around both sides of the boulder they sat against. Abe tried to count but in the dim light it was hard to tell. Ten, twenty? Each was wearing the telltale German helmet with the spike on the top. 

They sat stock still as the patrol passed them. Then the mortar fire began, maybe a mile away. Even so, the ground vibrated and flashes came like lightning. In one flash, Abe saw the outline of a church on a hill and he realized what had happened. They had gotten turned around. They were a behind enemy lines. That mortar fire, that was the Brits shelling the front line. 

There was another burst of light and Abe grabbed Harry’s arm and pointed at the church. He watched as understanding burst on Harry’s face. 

“What do we do?” Harry asked in a low voice. 

Abe looked back at the skyline and then peered around the boulder. “We got to get back to the Allies.”

Harry nodded. “Now?”

“They won’t be looking behind them.” 

Harry considered this, his hands wrapped tight around the barrel of his rifle and then he nodded. He seized Abe’s chin and leaned forward, planting a fierce kiss on his lips. Pulling back, he growled, “Don’t die, you got that Abe?”

Abe stared at him, wide-eyed. A mortar lit up the sky and for an instant he saw Harry’s face, earnest and brave and terrified. He gripped Harry’s shoulder and nodded. “You too.” 

Abe grabbed his rifle and leaned back against the rock. “On three,” he said. 

“One…two…three…” 

They came out from both sides of the rock, guns blazing. 

**We blaze away**

The camp was quiet. The front was quiet. Everything had paused for the Christmas ceasefire. Two hours ago, at midnight, they had sung Silent Night. Across the battlefield, they could heard the Germans take up the tune and for a few eerie moments the air was full of song rather than mortar fire. 

Now, everyone was in their tents, sleeping soundly, knowing that there would be no attack. 

“Oh. God. Harry, what are you doing?” Abe asked, whispering. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Harry’s voice was husky and low. 

“No way.”

**Huddled in the trenches**

It had been raining for three days straight. It was a cold, drenching rain that had saturated their oilskins within hours. The bottom of the trenches were filthy, muddy pits reeking of piss and decay. With each step, their boots sunk into the mud and make squelching, sucking sounds when they picked their foot up. 

The squad was huddled along the bottom of the trench as rifle fire and mortars were lodged over their heads. The steady thrum-thrum-thrum of machine gun fire pounded the air. Sergeant Louis was in a foul mood. It had been days since Captain Webster had had a scouting assignment for them and that left them ferrying crates of ammo through the trenches, resupplying the dug in positions along the river. It was dangerous work as the route between the supply depot and the machine guns left them exposed for stretches. It was back-breaking work, made more difficult by the white soldiers who cursed them for being slow or in the way as they maneuvered the crates through the narrow walkways. 

Abe was exhausted. He had been working with Freeman, the next shortest guy on the squad, and now his hands were shaking and his shoulders and back ached with the abuse. He took a swallow out of his canteen and stared up at the grey sky, his eyes were blank and unseeing. Harry had been working with Terrence. Somehow, after the fight, a tenuous understanding had grown between them. They were both big men and now, when in camp, they could occasionally be coaxed into an arm wrestling match or some other contest of strength. Other times, Abe would return from the latrine to find the two of them sharing a ciggy, saying nothing as they passed it back and forth. Occasionally Abe would catch Terrence watching him. Once he asked Harry about it but Harry just shrugged and asked him how his new boots were breaking in. 

The background noise changed. The machine gun nearest them stopped and there was shouting and swearing and calls for a Lieutenant Clancy and then someone yelling back that he was injured bad. 

Harry looked at Abe. “Do you think it’s broke?” 

Abe nodded, meeting Harry’s eyes. 

“Cover me?” Harry asked as he stood.

“’Course.” Abe replied. 

Harry started down the trench toward the gun and Abe followed, tapping Terrence on the shoulder as he went. Terrence looked up, confused, but when he saw Harry moving off he got up and followed.

The machine gun was mounted on the top of the trench so that whomever was operating it had to stand with their head and shoulders exposed. At best this was dangerous – machine gunners had a high casualty rate – but when the gun was firing it was hard to take aim at the person behind the wall of bullets. 

To fix the gun, you had to be even higher up than the gunner usually was and you did not have the protection of the constant stream of bullets. Gunners practiced clearing jams until they could do it in under five seconds. Even so, it was an incredibly dangerous five seconds. 

There was a crowd of soldiers crouching down under the machine gun. The gunner, identified by his shoulder patches, was sprawled in the mud, gasping for breath, with two gunshot wounds to his shoulder. He was surrounded by several infantrymen, trying to explain how to repair the gun. 

When they arrived, one of the infantrymen looked up at them. “Go fetch Lieutenant Reddington, boy,” he ordered. Ignoring him, Harry went up to the gun while Terrence and Abe flanked him, positioning their rifles and firing. 

Behind him, one of the infantrymen tried to shove Harry out of the way but the gunner gasped out, “No, he’s doing it right.” Another of the infantry men said, “Bradley? That’s Harry Bradley. He used to be on KP. Remember? He fixed up rifles at night.” Belatedly, Abe recognized Tiny, the soldier whose gun Harry had been fixing that night he had been stuck on pot duty. 

Abe’s gun ran out of ammo and when he ducked down to reload it, Tiny took his rifle from his hands, saying, “Let me reload,” and gave his own to Abe. Abe got back up and continued firing, aiming for anything that moved. Seconds later, Tiny was crouched next to Abe, and another soldier was crouched next to Terrence.” 

It took nearly a minute for Harry to get the gun working again and flop down into the trench. “It’s going to jam again,” he said. “It needs to be cleaned. I did the best I could.” 

The gunner nodded and then held up a hand as he gasped “Someone get me up? I got a gun to shoot.” They all looked at him, realizing what he was asking, but then one of the infantry men draped the gunner’s good arm over his shoulder and helped shift him into position. As the machine gun started to throb again, he shouted, “Thank you.” 

**And proud array**

“Corporal Bradley,” Captain Webster called. They were a couple miles behind the frontlines, at the main camp. There was still dew on the grass as they lined up for reveille. Louis’s squad stood off to the side of the three hundred other men who were stationed here at the moment. Except for the cooks and stewards, they were the only colored troops on the base and they were attracting more attention than any of them were comfortable with. The sarge, though, with his deep red skin and jet black hair, had it the worst. He was the only colored sergeant and no one ever let him forget it. 

“Yes sir!” Harry called out. 

“Front and center, soldier.” 

Harry marched forward to stand in front of Captain Webster. Abe watched him nervously. What was going to happen? He glanced at Sergeant Louis, but Louis’s face was impassive, carved from stone. 

Captain Webster drew an envelope from a folder. The white soldiers standing to Abe’s right grumbled, but Abe grinned in anticipation. 

Captain Webster pulled a paper from the envelop and began to read, projecting his voice so all of the assembled could hear. “On March 11th, Corporal Harold Bradley, with no regard to his own safety, exhibited great strength, courage and valor when he rescued four injured servicemen who were pinned down by enemy fire. For these actions, I award Corporal Bradley a citation for conspicuous gallantry.” Webster slid the paper back in the envelop. As he did so, Abe could see that he was speaking quietly to Harry. 

Abe glanced at the squad of white servicemen to his right and he was unsurprised to see that the grumbling had given way to stony silence. The night that Webster had spoken of had been a comedy of errors that should have gotten the four soldiers killed. 

When Captain Webster was finished he turned Harry around to face the assembled troops. Their squad clapped wildly. “Company, dismissed!” he said. 

As the soldiers wandered off, Harry made his way back over to the squad and they gathered around him, clapping him on the shoulder, grinning at him. Freeman said, “What’d he say to you, Bradley?” 

Harry glanced over at Sergeant Louis and then back at the squad. It took him a moment to reply. “He told me how grateful he was that he did not have to write four more letters to their families. But,” Harry added, “not so grateful as he’d share a bottle of that good whiskey they give the officers.” 

They laughed and dispersed as they walked back toward the their tents. 

Later, when they were alone, Abe asked, “What did he really say?” 

Harry looked at Abe searchingly and then he looked down at the envelop in his hands. Abe followed his gaze, admiring Harry’s fingers before looking back at Harry’s face and the long-healed scar. Harry said, “He put me in for promotion. The brass said no way. This was the best he could do.” 

**Our rifles blaze away**

Rifle fire exploded from somewhere, everywhere. Abe dove down into the trench, throwing himself on the rocky floor. “God damned.” 

Harry, who was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the trench wall looked over at him. “Sarge said to not put your head up.” 

Abe shrugged, adjusting his legs so they were less sprawled out but his leg leaned against Harry’s. Terrence watched them from across the trench, his eyes dark and unreadable. Jim Washington and Freeman were playing craps with a couple of the other guys. Jim was cleaning up, by the looks of it. 

“What are we waiting for?” Abe complained. 

Sergeant Louis glared at Abe. “ _Une_ ,” he said. “We are scouts. The brass don’t need scouts right now. “ _Deux_ ,” he continued, “Major Webster ordered the whole battalion to hold for a reason.” He glanced at Terrence and then back to Abe, speaking more softly. “ _Troix_ , are you really in such a hurry to die, Brice?” 

Abe felt his cheeks flush and he looked down and then he looked back up. “Sorry, Sarge.” 

Sergeant Louis shrugged and then moved down the line to talk to another sergeant. 

As Abe watched, Harry’s hand found Abe’s and he squeezed it. “Don’t get yourself killed, you got that?” he whispered.

Abe squeezed Harry’s hand. “Course not,” he said. “I am always careful.” 

Harry laughed, “Abe, the last fucking thing you are is careful.”

And so they waited, boiling tin cans of water over a tiny fire to make a bitter, gritty coffee that they dipped the hardtack in, dicing until Jim Washington had all their tobacco and telling stories that they had all heard before, but their familiarity was comforting, somehow, as the tension slowly built. The day passed and it became night, lit by a sliver of moon low on the horizon. There was a firefight in the distance and then the gunfire abruptly cut off. 

A few minutes later, Sergeant Louis came back and they clustered around him. “I have a mission. It’s strictly volunteer-only. Understand?” They all nodded at him. “I’m going, but I won’t think any less of you if you don’t.” He looked around again, meeting their eyes. Freeman, Abe suddenly realized, did not look like a kid anymore. 

When none of them looked away, the sergeant continued, using a stick to sketch a map in the dirt as he talked. “Delta company is about three miles to the east of here. They got flanked. Their runner had been sent back to command to check-in with new orders – they were waiting, same as us – and he was on the way back to them when the German attack occurred. He saw it all. According to him, they used gas and it was a rout. Most of Delta company was killed. A few survivors were taken prisoner. The mission is to go after the prisoners.” 

They nodded. Terrence looked at Harry. “Tiny’s in Delta, right?” 

“Yeah,” Harry replied, grimly. 

Sergeant Louis went on. “It won’t be clear where the enemy lines are, but we’ll be behind them most of the time. Major Webster thinks the prisoners are being held here,” he added a point to his map, “about a mile beyond Delta’s position where, the locals tell us, the Germans have set up a command post.”

The sergeant looked up at them, looking around to meet each man’s eyes. “Like I said, this is volunteer only. 

“I’m in,” Abe said. 

Harry looked at Abe and then the sergeant. “I’m in, too.” 

“Me too,” Terrence added. 

And one-by-one, they joined. 

Sergeant Louis looked around at them, nodding in approval. “We’re leaving in ten and travelling light. Just weapons and extra ammo, no supplies. Scuff your boots and buttons. Put dirt on your faces. We don’t want shine.” 

The men started to scatter to prepare, when Abe said, “Sarge?” 

“What, Brice?” 

“Think there are some pointy German helmets around?” 

Jim Washington snorted, “What, you think your black ass can pass for a kraut?” and several other men laughed. 

But the sergeant was looking at Abe, thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting idea. I’ll see what I can rustle up.” 

Terrence looked at Abe, “What are you thinking?” 

“I am thinking that if we have pointy helmets, at least our profiles won’t look suspicious. If anyone gets a good look-see, it won’t matter, of course.” 

“Might work,” Jim Washington admitted. 

They waited until moonset before they crept over the wall of the trench and jogged east. They were, Abe reflected, nothing like the green recruits they had been six months ago. They all knew their jobs in the line and did them, alert and hair-triggered. 

When they got to Delta’s position, they found bodies left where they had died, sprawled across each other. Dead eyes stared out of pale filthy faces. Their uniforms were encrusted with blood and torn by bullets and bayonets. Abe choked back a sob and was surprised when Jim Washington gripped his shoulder. They stared for a few seconds before Sergeant Louis said, “You have three minutes. Grab as many dogtags as you can, then we need to keep moving.” 

The bodies were cold and stiff, but this was not the first time they had done this. It had been worse on other occasions, when the bodies were bloated and reeking. Abe stuffed the handful of dogtags he had collected into a pocket and they moved on. 

“Anyone find Tiny?” he asked quietly as they walked. 

“Yeah,” said Jim Washington. 

They passed a German patrol going outwards who hailed them and walked on. Abe lifted his rifle, aiming for their backs, but the sergeant put his hand on it, pushing it down, shaking his head. “ _Let them go_ ,” he mouthed. 

About half a mile further in they crawled to the top of a grassy rise, fanning out to peer over the ridgeline. On the far side of the hill they saw fires from the German camp. After watching for a few minutes they retreated back down the hill to hold a whispered conversation. 

“Tell me what you saw,” the sergeant began. 

“Looks like their sentries are not patrolling,” Jim Washington began. 

“I counted four or five,” said Terrence. 

“Eight,” corrected Harry. “Three clustered around a tent on far side.”

They went on, adding details. When they ran out of details, Sergeant Louis said, “We need to get in and out without waking the camp. We will circle around, approach from the west. Washington, you drop the two on the outside while Brice and Terrence sneak in and get the third one. The rest of you, I’ll be with you. Once Washington takes out the first two sentries, we’ll cut our way into the back of the tent and see what we see. Hopefully the prisoners are in there and they’ll be able to walk. Freeman?” 

“Sir?” 

“Procure us some transport.” 

“Sure.” 

“Everyone ready?” 

The plan went to pieces almost as soon as they engaged. Washington, who was their best shot, fired on one of the guards and dropped him like a rock, but when he fired on the second, the shot hit the man in the shoulder and it was not fatal. The German soldier started screaming. 

Abe and Terrence, already well within the perimeter of the German camp looked at each other. “Shit,” said Abe. 

“Abort?” Terrence asked. 

“No way,” Abe said, breaking into a run. “We’ll keep them busy on this side, give them time to get the prisoners out.” 

Terrence nodded, running beside him. 

Germans were running towards the tent, half dressed, just woken from sleep. 

Taking cover behind a tank, they started a firefight, leaning around the treads to take their shots. They picked off the soldiers running towards them, killing them before they knew what was going on. “Yes!” shouted Abe as one fell. “That’s for Tiny!” and then, another, “That’s for Bananas! That’s for Jonny!” One-by-one, he shot the men running towards him, getting them in the legs, the chest, the head. 

Suddenly, his rifle jammed and he looked about wildly for Terrence, panic penetrating the giddy delight of killing the enemy. He looked up and there was a German soldier right in front of him. His gun was useless and he went to swing it like a bat. The man collapsed and Harry dropped down beside him. “Time to go,” Harry shouted and Abe nodded, finally clearing the jam from his gun. Side-by-side, they headed out of the camp, firing until they rounded the side of the tent and lost their sightline. They found Terrence sitting with his back against the wheel of a truck, his gun laying across his lap.

“Come on!” Abe shouted. 

Terrence did not move. 

Harry slid to a stop and turned back, crouching down by Terrence. “Sam? Sam, come on, we gotta move!” 

Terrence still did not move. 

“Oh, shit,” Harry said, his voice broken. He put his fingers to Terrence’s throat to feel for a pulse but Abe pulled on him. “He’s gone, Harry. We gotta go.” 

Harry reached in Terrence’s shirt and took his dogtag and then he grabbed the handful of Delta’s tags in Terrence’s pocket. Grimly, he stuffed them in his own pocket and ran. 

**Cradled in our dungarees**

By the time they got back their tents, the eastern sky was lightening. Sergeant Louis told them they were off duty for the day but he expected to see them all after dinner. They had an appointment with a bottle of Major Webster’s whiskey. 

Harry and Abe tumbled through the door of their tent and into the tiny space that was barely big enough for the two of them to sit facing each other. Abe grabbed Harry’s shoulders and suddenly they were kissing hard and rough and desperate. The grit from Harry’s face crunched between Abe’s teeth and the salty tang of blood and sweat made the edges of Abe’s tongue itch but he did not care. He ran his fingers over Harry’s head, feeling the bristly curls against his rough hands. Harry started to unbutton his coat, but his fingers were thick with exhaustion and he fumbled with the buttons. With a growl of frustration, Abe pushed Harry’s hands out of the way and undid his own buttons. 

By the time Abe had wriggled out of his coat, Harry had unbuttoned his own. Leaning close, Abe slid Harry’s jacket off his shoulders, running his hands over the hard, bulky muscles in his arms. The anticipation of those strong hands on his body, holding him, moving him, sent a thrill though Abe. When the coat slipped free of Harry’s hands, Abe tossed it to the side. 

Abe slid his lips over Harry’s unshaven chin and Harry lifted his head, letting Abe kiss his throat and along his collar bone. While he was kissing Harry, Abe pulled the bottom of Harry’s undershirt free of his pants and pushed it up so he could slide his hands along Harry’s stomach. Sitting back on his heels, Abe pulled it up and over Harry’s head. There was not enough space in the tent for him to pull it off by himself, so Harry helped by wriggling his shoulders. Seconds later, Harry was pulling Abe’s shirt off and they wrapped each other in a fierce hug, skin to skin, their lips pressed together, urgent and needy, tongues pressing between teeth, hands grabbing at shoulders and cheeks and heads. Between them hung their dogtags, pressed hard into their chests. 

Breaking free of the kiss, Harry gripped Abe’s hips, shifting his position so Abe was straddling his waist. Harry reached down to tug at Abe’s belt while Abe ran his fingers down Harry’s chest, stroking the soft curls and teasing the nipples to hard. As Harry pulled Abe’s belt loose, Abe put his hands on Harry’s shoulders and pressed him so he fell backwards. He followed Harry down, starting another round of kissing as they rubbed their bodies together, a thigh pressed hard between the other’s legs. 

Harry grabbed Abe’s shoulders and rolled them over so Harry was on top, his knees between Abe’s legs, his hands on either side of Abe’s shoulders. Harry’s dogtags were dangling from his neck and laying on Abe’s chest. Abe reached up and cupped them in his hands, gripping them in his fist. 

He was surprised at Harry’s hoarse plea. “Don’t,” came out of trembling lips. The word was so broken that Abe froze and looked up. Harry’s eyes were full and, as Abe watched, tears ran down Harry’s nose and fell onto his chest. 

Abe suddenly had the visceral feel of running through the trench where Delta had been slaughtered, grabbing at the chains around the soldiers’ necks and yanking. His feet were flying across the dark muddy ground. There was no time to think, no time to notice who it was or how he died, no time for anything but grab the chains and move on. At least the families would know for sure that they died and that they were not POWs.

And then Abe remembered Harry down on one knee, pulling the dogtag from Sam Terrence’s neck. Terrence who had fought with them, drank with them, played cards with them, stilled. Terrence and his odd penetrating gaze staring sightlessly into the night. 

When they had leapt into the truck that Freeman had commandeered, they screamed, ”GO!” and Jim Washington had yelled, “Wait! Freeman, wait! Sam’s not here!” Abe had shaken his head and Harry had put a hand on Jim’s Washington’s shoulder. Silently, Harry had put Terrence’s dogtags in Jim Washington’s hand. When Jim stared at them without comprehension, Harry had closed Jim’s fingers around the metal rectangles and Jim Washington had met Harry’s eyes with an expression that Abe knew he would never forget. 

With Harry’s warm tags gripped in his hand, he realized what he was holding and what he had held. The sob that tore from his throat was unexpected and raw. He grabbed for Harry, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him down on top of him even though Harry squashed his chest and made it hard to breath, so he could bury his face in Harry’s neck and Harry could bury his face in his. 

It was like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, that they cried themselves out, realizing that they were the survivors and they were still alive and they still had each other and together they fell into an exhausted sleep. 

**All over the town**

“So, Sarge, anyone special you are going home to?” Jim Washington asked.

They were sitting around a tiny table on the sidewalk of a Paris cafe, waiting for coffees that Sergeant Louis had ordered for them. The waiter had been haughty and rude when he had taken their order. Even Abe who spoke nothing but English could tell that Sergeant Louis’s grammar was being corrected, but when the coffee arrived it was luxuriously smooth and generously enriched with a dollop of brandy. 

It was disorienting sitting in the sun, sipping their coffee. After weeks of brutal offensive, the war had come to an abrupt end and they were being shipped home. First by truck, then by train, they were headed to Fort Brest where they would board a ship across the sea. 

For now, they were in Paris, waiting for the next train west. Walking through Paris streets, not burdened by guns or ammo or packs or gas masks, trying not to worry about being shot, was even stranger. It took an act of will to sit still and watch the civilians walk by.

“Not anymore,” Sergeant Louis replied. 

“What happened?” Freeman asked

“She found a guy who was not on the other side of the world.” 

“That’s too bad.” Freeman replied.

Sergeant Louis shrugged taking a sip of the coffee. “Her choice.”

“Where is your home, anyway?” asked Abe. 

Sergeant Louis grinned. “Where do you think?” 

“Indian Country?” Jim Washington ventured. 

“You got it, though we’ve been a state for ten years. The fine state of Oklahoma, which, in my language, means the ‘Land of Red People.’” 

“Really?” Abe asked, incredulous. 

“Really.” 

“The actually call it the land of the red people?”

“ _Okla humma_ ,” Sergeant Louis replied. “That’s Choctaw for ‘red people’, which means all Indians, not just the Choctaw.” 

Abe looked speculatively across the table at the sergeant. Harry, watching him, shook his head with a smile. 

“What?” Freeman asked, realizing he was missing the joke. 

Sergeant Louis chuckled. “I think that Brice is thinking that there ought to be a state for brown people.” 

Harry, who had been quiet through this whole conversation was looking at Freeman with a wicked grin on his face. 

“Don’t you dare,” Freeman said, hiding behind his coffee cup as his face flushed. 

Harry raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. 

Jim Washington looked between Harry and Freeman. “Aw, you gotta tell us.” 

“Come on, Bradley,” coaxed Sergeant Louis. 

Finally, Harry said, “Well, let’s just say, I don’t think that Private Freeman here would like to live in a state for brown people.” 

The tips of Freeman’s ears were bright pink. 

Abe figured it out. “Oooh, he’s got a crush!” 

Jim Washington laughed, hitting Freeman on the shoulder. “Our baby, all grown up.” 

“Who is it?”

“Yeah, who is it?” 

Freeman mumbled something. 

“Speak up!”

“Mary Pickford,” Freeman admitted, peaking over the rim of the cup. 

There was silence around the table and then howls of laughter. “So it’s blondes?” 

“Or curls?” 

“Black women have plenty ‘o curls.” 

“Or maybe it’s that alabaster skin.” 

“’Alabaster’, now where did you learn a word like that?” 

**We blaze away**

“What’ll it be, Sarge?” Abe asked. They perched on the edges of their cots with a crate turned on its side between their knees. The crate was acting as an impromptu table for the game of blackjack. Abe was dealing. 

The Army had improvised a barracks in a church hall for the colored troops instead of housing them at the main base on Fort Brest. All for the best, they joked, even though the conditions were crowded. The Spanish flu had hit Fort Brest hard over the last few months. It was a wonder they hadn’t sent the colored troops to Fort Brest and let the white ones stay in church basements. 

Sergeant Louis had a two and a ten. “Hit me,” he said. 

Abe flipped over the next card. “Bad news, king of diamonds for Sarge.” 

Sergeant Louis stacked his cards and shrugged. “Next time.”

“Jim?” Abe asked. 

Jim Washington had a four and an eight. 

Abe flipped over the next card. “Ooh, three for Jim. That makes fifteen. Harry?”

Harry shrugged and tapped the table. 

Abe flipped over an ace and put it next to the Jack and three that Harry already had. “Fourteen for Harry,” he said. 

Abe had an eight showing and he peaked at his downward facing card and said, “Dealer stands. Okay, Jim, you have fifteen. Stand or hit?” 

Jim shrugged. “Hit,” he said. 

Abe grinned. “Living dangerously, Jim. What’ll it be?” He toyed with the card before flipping it over. 

“Just flip the card, Abe.” 

Abe flipped it. “A three. Eighteen for Jim. Harry? You going to stand on fourteen or take your chance?” 

Harry did not answer so Abe asked again, “Harry?” 

“What?” Harry asked, suddenly snapping out of whatever daze he had been in. 

“Hit or stand?”

“Oh, hit.” 

Abe flipped over a card. “Oh, too bad, the lady of spades.”

Abe looked back at Jim and Jim waved him off. 

Nodding, Abe flipped over his face down card. “Dealer has fifteen.” Jim leaned forward and scooped up the handful of ciggies that were the pot. 

Abe expertly shuffled the cards, bridging them between his hands. “Harry, your deal?” Abe asked. 

When Harry did not reply, Abe looked up. Harry was staring off into this distance, his eyes glassy and his face pale. “Harry?” he asked again. 

Sergeant Louis who, who was sitting next to Harry, touched him on the shoulder and Harry swayed. Louis put the back of his hand to Harry’s cheek, his fingers brushing the puckered long-healed scar. “Dear god!” he exclaimed. “He’s burning up!” 

**We blaze away**

Jim Washington settled down in the pew next to him. Abe didn’t look, he just knew it was Jim. Sunlight was streaming through a stained glass window. Where they sat was saturated in a pool of blue light. For a while neither of them said anything and it was comforting for Abe to just feel him sitting next to him. Abe’s eyes were fixed and unfocused, staring in the general direction of the crucifix over the alter. 

After a few minutes, Jim spoke. “Sarge’s fever broke,” he said. “Docs think he’ll make it.” 

Abe nodded in acknowledgement but he was not thinking of Sergeant Louis. He was thinking of that day, playing blackjack. Harry had collapsed on the bunk, shaking. Abe had knocked over the milk crate as he stumbled over to kneel on the ground next to him, taking Harry’s hand (it had been hot, so hot to the touch, and dry like paper) in his own and calling him. “Harry,” he had said. “Harry, you’re gonna be alright. Don’t die, Harry, you promised me. You promised me,” and somehow his pleading had dissolved in tears and he had knelt on the floor, clutching Harry’s hand to his chest while Harry had weakly grasped at his shirt.

Sarge had gripped his shoulders, pulling him back from Harry. “Abe,” Sergeant Louis had said softly. “Let go. We have to take him to the hospital.” Abe had let Sergeant Louis take Harry’s hand from him. Sergeant Louis had draped Harry’s arm over his own neck while Jim Washington had taken Harry’s other arm and together they dragged Harry away. 

It had taken Abe moment to realize what was happening, but when he did, he had jumped to his feet and dashed along behind them, never feeling so helpless in his life. By the time they had gotten Harry to the hospital, his skin had taken on a bluish tinge and bloody froth had been coming from his mouth with each gasping breath. The doctors had taken him away. The next time Abe had seen Harry, he’d been dead. 

The following day, Abe had come down with it and even though he had pleaded with God to let him die, he had not. 

Jim put his hand gently on Abe’s leg and Abe closed his eyes, tears coming unbidden. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Jim,” he admitted in a strangled whisper.

“Yeah.” Jim Washington squeezed his knee and took his hand back. “I wish I could tell you it’d get better, but it don’t. Every single day when I wake up, I roll over and look for Jonny and he’s not there.”

Abe looked down at his hands clasped between his knees and twisted them, tangling his fingers together. He pulled them apart and stared at his broken nails, the torn cuticles, the heavy calluses on his palms and fingers. He remembered Harry’s hands, caked with dirt or stained with grease. He remembered watching Harry’s hands work the wrench on the King car, a lifetime ago. He remembered the gritty feel of Harry’s hands against his skin. He remembered Harry’s hand closing around Sam’s dogtags. 

He remembered Jim’s hands, pressing the cut on Harry’s face together to stitch it up, just hours after Jonny died. “I can’t imagine what it must be like for you.” Abe said after a while. “Harry and me, we only go back to basic.”

Jim shrugged, speaking softly. “Don’t see how that matters. You loved him.”

Abe looked up sharply and stared at Jim, panic hitting him like a fist to the gut. 

Jim looked at him, amusement in his eyes, despite everything. “What, you think no one knew?” Jim shook his head, smiling. “Sam told me, after Jonny died.” Abe’s head was swimming. What did Sam Terrence have to do with anything? Jim went on. “That’s why he was so mad at you, you know. Not cause you panicked, we all panicked that first day. No. He hated you because you still had Harry and he had lost Jonny.” 

It was too much for Abe to understand and so lifted his eyes to stare at the crucifix, trying to find a prayer, but none would come. He dropped his eyes back to his hands, clenching them into fists. 

Jim watched him a moment before putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. “Come on, Abe,” he said gently. “I’ll buy you a drink, if you’ll tell me about Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting things I read about while writing this story:
> 
> [African Americans in World War 1](http://www.militaryhistoryonline.com/wwi/articles/fightingforrespect.aspx)  
> [Another article about African Americans and World War 1](http://exhibitions.nypl.org/africanaage/essay-world-war-i.html)  
> [Choctaw Code talkers](http://www.choctawnation.com/history/people/code-talkers/code-talkers-of-wwi/)  
> [More on code talkers](http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-26963624)  
> [Tanks and vehicles of of the First World war](http://www.militaryfactory.com/armor/armor-1910-1919.asp)  
> [The Spanish Flu](https://virus.stanford.edu/uda/)  
> [And more on the 1918 flu pandemic](http://www.history.com/topics/1918-flu-pandemic) That flu epidemic killed about 5% of the world population and made nearly 25% of the humans on the planet sick. 
> 
>  
> 
> I am usually a stickler for historical accuracy, but in this story, I took liberties both with the timeline of WW1 and of the role of African Americans in the war. The song did as well. For example, the [Fifth Regiment of the US Army](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/5th_Infantry_Regiment_%28United_States%29#World_War_I) did not participate in World War 1. The [Fifth Regiment of the US Marines did](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/5th_Marine_Regiment_%28United_States%29#World_War_I) but they are based out of California. Calling Bagley a ["bowery tuff"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bowery#Slide_from_respectability) suggests he is a New Yorker and while now it would be common for a person to get stationed across the country, at the time the regiments were more regional. Go figure. 
> 
> The [Silent Night](http://www.history.com/news/world-war-is-christmas-truce-100-years-ago) story actually happened. Can you imagine? 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it anyway! I certainly had a ball writing it. 
> 
> Thanks to bluedog for the beta and for putting up with me for the six weeks where this was all I talked about. :)


End file.
